


with the time given to us

by martial_quill



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: An Ode to Celebrían's Mixed Heritage, F/M, Gen, Multi-Racial Character, Rites and Customs of the Sindar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 13:10:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16995609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martial_quill/pseuds/martial_quill
Summary: Four moments in the Second Age, with Galadriel, Celebrían, and being mixed-race in Middle-Earth. Co-starring Celeborn, guest-starring Thranduil.





	with the time given to us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [citrinevaliance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrinevaliance/gifts).



1\. Vanya

“She’s perfect.”

“I know,” Galadriel said, leaning further back onto the pillows. Celeborn reached over and adjusted them, and ran a reverent hand over the silver strands at the top of the baby’s head. Not a full head of hair, not yet, but the silver of the Sindar and the Teleri. Galadriel smiled at the sight.

“She has your hair,” she said.

“She has your eyes,” Celeborn said. It was true. The baby’s eyes, when they had been open, had shone with the blue of Finarfin’s line, the blue eyes of the Vanyar.

Galadriel swallowed, feeling longing rise up in her throat, for there was so much that she had done that she did not regret, and yet, there were so many who should have been there. There should have been Finrod, wearing the Nauglamír itself – _“Artanis, if the birth of my niece doesn’t warrant this, what does?”_  – and laughing with delight when his niece reached up to play with it. Aegnor and Angrod, eagerly speculating on when the baby would be old enough to learn to run and wrestle and sing under their tutelage. Orodreth and Finduilas, with their merry smiles and their gentle hearts. And reaching back even further, Atar and Emmë…

She closed her eyes, clamped down mercilessly on the thought, and breathed it out, imagining it dissipating on her breath like smoke on a breeze. Yet even that could not erase the longing, for that was the method that Indis had taught her in the halls of Finwë’s palace, a piece of Taniquetil among the shimmering stonework of Tirion.

Celeborn had caught the train of her thoughts, and kissed the corner of her mouth. There was no apology in his eyes, only the fierce strength that she had fallen in love with, when they spoke in the woods of Doriath. “She will not grow up without kin,” Celeborn said. Not pushing her heartache aside; merely offering what he could as a comfort. And there was this. “Among the Noldor and the _iathrim_  both. She will not grow up alone. And–” he kissed her palm. “She will be raised knowing the traditions of her family. _All_ her family.”

“I remember living in Alqualondë and Tirion,” Galadriel said, leaning her head on his shoulder. Such an action would have infuriated her in her younger days, before Celeborn had first won her hand, when she had gone by _Artanis_. For fierce Artanis had no use for such a show of weakness, not even in Aman. But the First Age had changed the shape of the world itself, and her along with it; her spirit was not the same as that impetuous girl who had ran in Laurelin’s light. It had changed, become something different. Something gentler, and interested in the smaller things of life, as well as great deeds and kingdoms. Well-woven cloth, an argument settled, an enchantment for preservation created, all things in their own way as significant as any battle or army with banners. “But of Taniquetil, of my grandmother’s people…well. Some things, I suppose.”

Celeborn made an encouraging noise, as his arm slipped around her shoulder. She went on, feeling tears start in her eyes.

“The way Indis taught me to catch and watch my thoughts. She always said that someone gifted in osanwë should learn to understand her own mind, first. I never understood that, not until Beleriand. The contests of wrestling, racing, poetry. The flowers woven in our hair.” She looked down at the girl, and smiled. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves, though. We have not even a name for her.”

“I have a thought for that,” Celeborn said. “Although it is no name of foresight.”

She snorted, and held their daughter a little closer. “I have a hard time believing that,” she said, nudging him. “Celeborn the Wise, you were named long ago. Tell me.”

“Celebrían,” Celeborn said. “For she can be nothing other than a gift.”

“And you’re very proud that she has your hair,” Galadriel said, her lips quirking up in a smile.

“And I’m very proud that she has my hair,” Celeborn admitted with a grin, as he looked down at her. He traced a finger over the silvery fuzz; the baby stirred, but did not wake up. That would change soon enough, Galadriel thought, remembering Eärwen’s wry comments about how little sleep she had gotten, in the wake of her daughter’s birth.

Eärwen had had silver hair, too.

 _Celebrían. A silver-crowned gift for a silver tree…_ She repeated the name aloud, tasting it on her tongue. “Celebrían. I like it.”

* * *

2\.  Linda

Celebrían grew with a rapidity that was – Galadriel breathed the thought out quickly – rather terrifying. She had charmed her gaggle of visiting cousins, both on the Noldorin side of the family and the Sindarin side of the family, with astonishing rapidity. Even gruff Oropher’s gaze had softened, and a smile had rolled across his face, as he offered a long finger to the baby, and she had seized it energetically.

Of course, as quick to laugh as she was, she was still a baby, and prone to waking in the night and wailing until whatever crisis had arisen was resolved. Galadriel got to her feet, stepping out of the futon, and stepped forward into the nursery to pick her child up out of the cot, nearly tripping over her own feet as she opened the door. The nursery was illuminated by phials of starlight, and Galadriel spoke a word to dim their glow a little. Bright enough to comfort, not so bright that Celebrían's eyes would think it time to stay awake. With any luck. 

“Oh, little one,” Galadriel said, picking her daughter up out of the cot. Celebrían’s face was red and scrunched with her cries, silver hair forming an odd contrast against the skin. “What on earth is wrong now?” It was the third time tonight.

A deep breath told her that it wasn’t anything that required a change of diapers. Hungry, perhaps?

She reached out and touched her daughter’s mind. Yes, definitely hungry.

Memory stirred as Celebrían nursed, and Galadriel began to hum a song, the notes low and soft. From over an Age past, the lyrics surfaced in her mind, clear as the light of Vása.

 

_Will you sail with me, far over the seas?_

_Will you sing with me, on the salt-kissed breeze?_

_As the dolphins play, I shall hold you and sway,_

_Until we come to the end of the day._

 

_Come, sail with me over Ossë’s waves,_

_Come, dive with me into Uinen’s caves,_

_Let the dolphins play on the surface, let’s stay,_

_Until we come to the end of the day._

 

_Homeward bound, back to the city of pearls,_

_To the harbour we'll sail, over eddies and swirls,_

_Let the dolphins stay in the waves and there play,_

_As we come to the end of the day._

She sang the lullaby over and over, remembering Telperion’s light reflecting off a wall traced with mother-of-pearl, a suspended mobile of constellations made by her uncle himself that had hung above her cradle. Celebrían’s face crinkled as she sensed her mother’s distress, and Galadriel smiled down at her, and breathed the memory out, rocking her child to comfort her until her spirit returned to its peace. If nothing else, the question of whether she had inherited the skill of Finarfin’s line in sensing people's hearts was answered.

 _Someday, perhaps,_ she said wistfully, to the memory of Alqualondë. _Someday._

 _…but not yet,_ she thought, as Celeborn’s arm wrapped around her waist. Not yet, with her husband’s arms around her, and her arms around their child.

* * *

3\. Noldo

It was not, Galadriel thought with considerable amusement, that the children of the Sindar did not possess curiosity. Of course they did. But you would have hardly known it, from the line that Thranduil’s lips were set into.

“Because it is not _necessary_ –” Thranduil began, one long-fingered hand already coming up to massage his temple. “We know the directions to Mithlond well enough from the trees and the rivers.”

“True enough,” Celebrían admitted, twirling a lock of silver hair around her finger as she thought. Five years shy of her majority, she had none of the neutral poise of a practised politician, and Galadriel found herself regularly delighted and worried by that in equal measure. “But you have to admit, Thranduil, trees don’t exactly think of things on the same time-scale as us. A month, a year, it’s all the same to them. They don’t keep track of sunrises.” Thranduil opened his mouth to object, and Celebrían cut him off. “I know, I know! ‘There is no urgency; we are edhil, the war is over.’ But still, what if we needed or wanted to transport perishable goods? Or find an alternate route? It would be much easier, with a map to look at, surely.”

Thranduil scowled up at the skies and there was silence for a long moment, before he sighed.

“Very well, Celebrían. I’ll assist with this…venture.”

Celebrían flung her arms around her cousin with a delighted smile, her face lighting up, and Galadriel shook her head, feeling a pang of unease. Middle-Earth was not as safe as Aman. but her daughter’s eyes met hers as she passed through the kitchen, and she smiled widely at her mother, grin bright and reassuring.

“Nana, you don’t need to worry so much,” Celebrían said. She pitched the next sentence to carry to the sitting room, where Thranduil was sitting cross-legged with a cup of mead in his hand. “Cousin Thranduil could scare away a wolf-pack with sheer grumpiness.”

Thranduil’s scowl was almost as magnificent as his father’s. “Keep that up, and I’ll revoke my decision to help.”

An empty threat, if there ever was one; Celebrían knew it as well, because she smiled again and sat down beside him. “I thought we could leave day after tomorrow, gather some provisions. I don’t want to have to spend most of the daylight hunting. It'd mean so much less light for me to work by.”

“Excellent decision,” Thranduil said, and their heads bent together as they planned the trip to visit their cousin Elrond in the city of Mithlond, and chart their ways upon the new maps that delighted Celebrían so.

 _So joyful and free,_ Galadriel thought, and she smiled. They'd look after each other, no doubt, and look after Elrond once they got there. 

* * *

+1: Iathron

“And you’ve got _everything_?”

Sword at her hip. A quiver over her shoulder, as well as an unstrung bow that their best bowyer had made for her. And an irritated expression in blue eyes, before she closed them, took a few deep breaths, and opened them, smiling wryly as she nodded.

“Flint? Steel? Birch sticks? Daggers?” Wait, no, he could see the daggers in her belt. What about blankets? She'd need at least one, even though her cloak was warm. 

“ _Ada_ ,” she said, fond and exasperated, and wasn’t he using that tone on her yesterday? Hadn’t she barely come up to his knee last week? It didn’t _feel_ like fifty years, not even close. “I do remember a few of my lessons, you know.”

 _You’ve taught her well_ , his wife chimed in ósanwë, in almost the same breath. _You can breathe._

Celeborn sighed, and scooped his daughter up into a final hug. It was a rite of their people from before Menegroth was even built. Morgoth was cast into the Void, and she _was_ fifty this year. It was time for her to do so.

But oh, how his heart _ached_ for it.

“Ada, I’ll be fine,” she said, reaching up and kissing his cheek. She had to go onto her toes to do it; she hadn’t inherited his height, or Galadriel’s. “It’s only a month. I’ll be alright.”

Galadriel smiled, resting a hand on her shoulder and kissing Celebrían’s cheek. Her eyes were worried as well, but her smile was calm.

"Enjoy the freedom, Celebrían,” she said.

Their daughter rolled her eyes. “As if you won’t be sending birds my way continuously! But I’ll make the best of it, I suppose.” She swung her pack up onto her shoulder, ran careful hands over her gear one last time, and then kissed her mother’s cheek, and then Celeborn’s. Then, with only a swift “I’ll see you soon!” she was walking away down the lake-shore, making for the source of the Baranduin from there.

Galadriel leaned her head on his shoulder.

“We must have miscounted,” Celeborn said. “It’s not really fifty years.”

Galadriel’s smile was wistful as she shook her head. “No such luck, my love.”

They watched her walk away, singing a Vanyarin hymn to Elbereth to herself softly, and Celeborn let his temple bump against Galadriel’s.

“Sometimes, I can’t help but think that tradition is vastly overrated,” Galadriel said, mimicking his thoughts exactly.

“And yet, she’s _iathron_  too,” Celeborn said, sighing. “And it _is_ an important thing for her to go through.” The month of living on their own in the forest, away from kinsmen and friends, was a time when a young _iathron_  discovered much of who they were, of what their inclinations were, and their place in the world was. He remembered his own time in the woods of Doriath quite fondly. Beyond that, it also tested their abilities to fend for themselves; for that reason, no lembas was packed. The only thing that Celebrían would eat would be what she could hunt and forage. And despite knowing that her skills in that area were considerable, Celeborn closed his eyes nonetheless and sent a quick prayer to the Valar.

Galadriel’s hand came around his and squeezed.

“Definitely no more children,” Celeborn said, squeezing her hand back. “I can’t go through this twice.”

“Nor me,” she replied, ruefully. “Come on. Let’s go fishing on the lake. Perhaps the wind will let something slip.”

Hand in hand, they walked to down to the canoes, and pushed off into the lake.

**Author's Note:**

> Linda: 'singer', the name that the Teleri used to describe themselves.
> 
> Iathrim: Elves of Doriath, the Fenced Realm. *rubs forehead* Tolkien, your linguistic politics are amazing, but they hurt my head. 
> 
> Iathron: Elf of Doriath, singular.
> 
> Vása: Quenya, 'the sun.' 
> 
> Cartographer-Celebrían is inspired by Grundy's wonderful story 'The Places You'll Go.' The idea that the Sindar have a rite of passage of essentially solitary living off the land in the forest for a month has no basis in canon, to my knowledge, but I like it. 
> 
> This story is set in the version of canon where Galadriel and Celeborn dwelled for a while around Lake Nenuial in the early Second Age.


End file.
